


Shells

by eris_of_imladris



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Food, Food Issues, Grandparents & Grandchildren, food allergies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: Sometimes it takes the strangest remedy to heal an ancient wound.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Dior Eluchíl/Nimloth of Doriath, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur
Comments: 38
Kudos: 32
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/gifts).



> If you enjoy reading AUs before checking the notes/headcanons from the artist, read on! I’ll leave them at the bottom. :)
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/Jkm4Uxy)

Celebrían sat to Elrond’s left. It was a simple fact that should have made him completely at ease after so many years apart, but this dinner was different.

It was not the first feast he had been to since arriving in Valinor, but the idea of being able to see people who had existed just in history for so long was intimidating, even for him. He was well aware that he was little more than a historical figure to many in Middle-Earth, but here he was practically young, and yet by virtue of his blood and upbringing, tangled in so many threads of familial arguments that he hardly knew which steps were safe.

It had not been Elrond’s idea to sit with Dior and Nimloth for what was sure to be a lengthy feast. For all that they were his grandparents, Celebrían knew them far better, having spent a great deal of time with Nimloth when she was recovering from the trauma that sent her from Middle-Earth so prematurely. He was surprised to hear that they had formed such a bond when he finally arrived, weary and unsure if he had done the right thing for their family, but he had been so relieved to see her acting like her old self that he was willing to indulge anything.

That hardly meant he was at ease, however. He hardly knew Dior and Nimloth from anything other than legends, and their first conversations were no better, sticking to safe topics and trying to hide his shock at Dior’s one milky-white eye that Celebrían later whispered to him had been a relic of Celegorm. Her scars were gone, but his remained, and there was no looking at the ancient reborn half-elf without seeing his gruesome end.

Somehow, among all of that, Elrond was supposed to form a bond with his grandparents over the feast. The main course had just arrived, and although he knew which utensils to wield for the swordfish and vegetables, he hardly knew what to say. It was Celebrían who knew what his grandparents expected, Celebrían who knew how to bridge the gap. It felt almost like their earliest days together, when he was so tongue-tied that it took a war for him to confess his love.

Contrasting tastes mingled on his tongue, the sweetness of the fish nearly hidden by the spices of the sauce, only to sweeten again in the next bite. The broccoli was nearly tasteless in comparison, but Elrond couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the first question out of Dior’s mouth after the meal was served was, “What commission did you seek from the sculptor?”

Elrond knew immediately that he spoke of his recent visit to Nerdanel, and just as swiftly as he knew who Dior spoke of, he knew his immense disapproval.

“No commission,” he said, lifting another piece of broccoli on his fork. “We simply spoke.”

“Spoke of what?” Dior asked in a voice that would not sound out of place at a war table.

“Things of the past,” Elrond answered honestly, quickly filling his mouth to quench any impulse to elaborate.

“What things of her past would interest you?”

Elrond knew that Dior knew, just as much as he knew Dior’s own tale. The fair son of Beren and Lúthien who ruled over Doriath, who once possessed a silmaril that brought ruin upon his home and family. The father of twins who died young and a daughter who still lived, but was as much of a stranger to Elrond as his grandfather.

He knew even less of Nimloth, save for her similar fate to her husband, and the rumor from Celebrían that she had a good sense of humor. He had yet to encounter this side of his grandmother, and he nearly felt guilty for knowing more of Nerdanel. With her, there was no expectation to fulfill. No bond of blood, which somehow made everything simpler.

Elrond kept meeting Dior’s eyes over their plates, suddenly unsure of what to say as if he had not been called wise for thousands of years. It was an entirely different matter to be wise in Valinor, Elrond had discovered soon after his arrival. There, the past was present in everything, and old divisions were brought up by the smallest of things, wielded like barbs or used to bring about a desired outcome.

Dior let out a small cough. “I would like to think you would have more interest in seeing your own parents.”

“We have met,” said Elrond, his voice sliding back into his old patterns of leadership. If he could only sound confident, perhaps he might be able to win back some of the ground he had clearly lost.

“Simply meeting is not enough,” Dior said, pausing to take a small sip of wine. He wrinkled his nose and drank again, not caring what was on his fork as he guided it to his mouth. “They saved everything for you, and you seek her first.”

“Things are not always easy,” said Elrond, a clear understatement in his mind. The last time he spoke with Elwing, it had been even stranger than his grandparents’ harsh standards, as she seemed to desire nothing more than to know every detail a true mother would care about in her child. He barely noticed himself tensing until he felt Celebrían drawing a small pattern on his hand, comforting him silently.

“Knowing who is family should be easy,” said Dior, coughing once more. Elrond had never seen his smooth facade break so easily, but he seemed rather flustered, face red as he took another, deeper gulp of wine. He fell silent, but refused to avert his gaze, as if he could convince Elrond to confess to some wrongdoing simply by his force of will.

But as Elrond continued to look at Dior, he noticed the odd cough emerging from his mouth was deepening, his nose crinkling as his cheeks turned the red of a lover’s blush, then redder.

“Grandfather?” he asked.

“Can’t breathe,” Dior said, his voice an odd rasp. Suddenly, the grandson was gone, and the healer had arrived as Elrond practically hurled himself over the table, reaching for Dior’s wrists to feel for his pulse, listening to the rattling in his lungs.

“What did you eat?” Elrond asked, holding his grandfather by the shoulders. Dior took in a wheezing breath, pointing to the same plate Elrond himself had eaten.

“It’s poison!” cried a voice, Elrond couldn’t tell who, but he could tell that strife was beginning. He could hear snippets of conversations around him, as if everything had suddenly stopped except for the potentially dying half-elf. He heard whispers of every possible theory from somehow being poisoned by Fëanorians - this earned a particularly stern glare from Dior, even with his eyes blown wide - to a disgruntled suitor of Lúthien coming forward after thousands of years. But it was Nimloth, looking back and forth between the plate of food and her husband, who gave Elrond the clue he needed.

He dipped his pinky into the fish on his own plate, quickly licking the sauce to general alarm. His eyes widened. “Who cooked this meal?” he asked, and after a small commotion, Celebrían eventually brought back an elf Elrond had never met, who wrung his hands together over and over.

“Are there peanuts in this sauce?” he asked, his voice coming out harsher than he would have wished. But Dior was still breathing heavily, his face slowly becoming covered by blotchy red marks.

“Yes,” the cook answered, and this time it was Nimloth who gasped.

“He’s allergic,” Elrond said, removing one hand from his grandfather’s shoulders to reach for the small bag of healing herbs he still carried with him. Usually it served little more purpose than nostalgia, but now he dug through it fiercely, taking out packets of herbs and digging his hand deeper.

“What do you mean?” asked a voice from somewhere. Elrond briefly looked up and saw the concerned faces of many of the attendees. They peered down at Dior with a mixture of concern and shock, and suddenly Elrond felt like he was simply speaking to the loved ones of someone injured who had no background in healing.

“Some people have an extreme reaction like this to specific foods,” Elrond said. “It can be fatal, but it can be treated, with proper help. His body is trying to choke itself from the inside.”

“Are you sure?” asked one voice among the crowd who Elrond didn’t recognize. “It could be poison. I have never seen an elf react like this to something that isn’t poison.”

“I have only seen a reaction like this in peredhil,” Elrond said. “Specifically, one in particular.”

As tended to happen with any mention of those who had departed and could not return, a hush fell over the room, and Dior’s wheezing was nearly the only sound as Elrond dug through his bag.

“The broccoli likely stopped it from getting as bad as it could,” Elrond said, removing a few packets of herbs and setting them aside before digging in the bag again. “But I’m low on nettles, and of course it’s right at the bottom of my bag…”

“What do you need?” asked the anxious chef still wringing his hands nearby.

“Three ingredients,” Elrond said. “The broccoli contains one - if anyone can find some that was not contaminated by the sauce, that would help give his body more time.”

He heard a shuffling as people tried to find untainted broccoli. “There may be some in the kitchens,” the chef said, and Elrond heard hurried footsteps as some of the guests ran in that direction.

“What are the other two?”

“Hardy oranges,” Elrond said almost immediately.

“I have oranges in the kitchen,” said the cook, but Elrond quickly held up his hand.

“These are different from typical oranges,” he said, still elbow-deep in his bag. “The plant is quite thorny, and rarely used for anything because they are so sour.”

“I have heard of those, but would never use them - they lend anything a foul taste,” the cook said. “Is there anything else? Anything at all? I can send a rider for the plants, but the last time I’ve seen trees of that kind was some time ago…”

“Nettles,” Elrond blurted out. “Stinging nettles. Do you have any of those?”

“I can find some,” said the cook, running off. A task would keep the anxious elf out of his face, Elrond knew, and it was easier for him to look for one thing in his bag instead of two. He was navigating the bag by feel alone, looking up at the sea of concerned faces when he finally felt the familiar, slightly fuzzy peel. It was dried - he hadn’t seen any growing here, although he hoped to plant a tree sooner or later - but it was still better than nothing, even if the skin was wrinkled and old.

“I need hot water,” he said, and nearly instantly there were three cups in front of him. He took the closest, breaking open the fruit and wrinkling his nose slightly at the sour smell before squeezing it in. The nettles arrived soon after, and before long, Elrond was helping Dior sip the tea, a small plate of broccoli at his side.

It seemed as if the whole room was holding their breath as Dior’s breath began to ease. “He needs a quiet place to rest. Family only,” he added as what seemed like half the room started to trail after him. He wondered if he was following Nimloth and Celebrían holding Dior between them as family or a healer, but in that moment, the distinction mattered little.

The chef led Elrond and the others to a small, secluded room with an elegant checkered pattern on the floor, a light breeze rustling the green curtains around a day bed. Elrond placed his fingers on Dior’s wrist again as he drew a blanket around him, noting his heartbeat and counting his breaths as Elrond handed him the tea once more.

He was somehow far more comfortable with his grandfather as a patient than the legend he had been told. He knew what to do with an allergic reaction - the three ingredients, and a healthy dose of healing magic, and the patient would recover sooner rather than later. But Dior still looked at Elrond with that one dead eye, trapping him there even as his breath grew easier.

When he pulled his attention away for a moment, he noticed Nimloth and Celebrían deep in conversation, only for Nimloth to approach him and grab his hand. “Thank you,” she said. “It has been so long since we went somewhere without confirming the menu first, but things were... “

“Complicated,” Elrond said. “I understand.”

With a small cough, Dior sat up as much as he could, speaking to Elrond in a raspy voice. “Why were you carrying that orange?” asked Dior, always sharp as the blade he had used to cut Fëanor’s family in half.

“I have always carried it since I was a boy,” Elrond said. “Elros had his first reaction when we still lived in Sirion. He used to have a fruit with me always, and the day our home was taken was no exception.” The words flowed out from his mouth even though he had been so careful, he knew that his unusual upbringing would not earn him any affection from his grandparents or many of the people they knew, but in the end he couldn’t help but think of his first night away from Sirion, the night when so many people had died but one had been saved...


	2. Chapter 2

“Here,” said a gruff voice from above, and Elrond was handed a lumpy rectangular bar by the one-armed, red-haired elf who had ravaged his home. He couldn’t quite see what was inside with just the light from the small fire he sat by, but he could feel familiar enough bumps and ridges.

His other captor, the dark-haired elf, handed another bar to Elros before taking one for himself. He grimaced as he bit into it, a loud crunching sound coming from his mouth. He turned to Elrond and Elros, mustering as much of a smile as he could. “These will keep you from feeling hungry on the road back,” he said gently. 

The boys sniffed at the bars, Elrond taking a hesitant nibble. It was hard to distinguish what was inside, and most of what he felt was the crunching sensation that almost hurt his teeth. But he had been taught manners, and even as he choked down the food, he muttered a quick “Thank you.”

“What’s in this?” Elros asked.

“Just eat it,” said the redhead, tearing into his own bar as if he could never imagine enjoying the taste of food.

“Are there nuts in it?” Elros whispered to his brother, still holding the bar far from his mouth.

“Yes, but I haven’t tasted any peanuts yet,” Elrond said, even though the bar was so burned he had trouble tasting much of anything at all. “It might be okay.”

“What’s wrong with peanuts?” grumbled the redhead.

“I can’t have them,” Elros said. “I’m allergic.”

“Allergic?”

“It makes me sick if I eat it,” Elros explained. “It feels funny, like my ears closing in, and then it’s hard to breathe.”

“Never heard of that, and we have no other food,” said the redheaded elf - Maedhros, Elrond thought his name might be - and that didn’t seem to matter to him at all as he pulled out a map and began to study it by the firelight. “Just eat it.”

The other elf, who had introduced himself to the boys as Maglor, looked curiously at Elros. He seemed to puzzle over something for a moment, but quickly came to a conclusion.

“There will be better food where we’re going,” he said. “Much better. This is what soldiers eat on the road, and I know you likely haven’t had it before, but perhaps it can be like an adventure.” A look of regret flashed over his face before he returned to his own bar, taking a bite and frowning slightly, quickly correcting his reaction in front of the children.

“It might have peanuts,” Elros whispered, but even though Elrond tried as hard as he could to discern flavors, he couldn’t tell.

“You have to eat something,” he eventually said. “You’ve got to be hungry after… today.”

Elros couldn’t deny the rumbling in his stomach, and before long, he took a tentative nibble of the bar.

“Good,” said Maglor. “It’ll get better soon. We have farms nearby with lovely plants, and we can even fish if you’d like.”

He continued speaking, perhaps just to fill the silence of the night, but soon there was a small shriek as Elros dropped the bar on the ground.

“I feel it, Elrond,” he whined. “In my ears. It’s in my ears. There’s peanuts.”

He had been strong all day, even brave in the face of the elves who had come to take his home, but his eyes were wide now, terrified. There had been so many losses that day, but none who mattered so much as the one who he spent nearly every waking minute with.

“He’s going to die,” said Elrond quietly, then louder when all he got from Maglor was a quizzical look. “His throat’s closing, look!”

There was hardly any need to look, however, as soon everyone around the fire heard Elros’ raspy breaths. His fingernails dug trails in Elrond’s arm and his eyes were filled with sheer terror as the two boys clung to each other. It felt like mere seconds had passed since the kinslayers had found them in the first place, surrounded by the bodies of everyone they knew, and reached out their hands in what they had said was kindness.

But it couldn’t possibly be kindness, Elrond knew. They hadn’t listened, not even when he tried to explain. It was just like when their mother sat with her jewel and was lost to the world, not hearing their words until they had to be pulled away.

“They killed our uncles,” Elrond thought he whispered, but he must have spoken louder than he thought, because the two grown elves looked over to him so suddenly he was surprised their necks didn’t crack.

“We are not letting these twins die,” Maglor nearly yelled, and Maedhros was on his knees holding Elros nearly before the sentence was out.

“What do you do for this?” Maedhros asked. When Elrond didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Your parents - what did they do when this happened?”

“There were three things they needed,” said Elrond. “There are some vegetables that are good for this, and, um… the pointy plants, what are they called again? I know what they’re called, I just don’t remember, I can’t - ”

“Nettles,” Elros wheezed.

“Yeah, nettles, and the oranges that taste strange. The little ones, they taste like lemons but they look like oranges,” Elrond babbled, barely noticing as Maglor tore through a nearby bag and Maedhros picked up Elros like he weighed nothing, holding him almost like the terrifying murderer knew how to hold a child.

“Here,” Maglor said, bringing out the nettles. “What do I do with them?”

“He has to eat them or drink them,” Elrond said, “and we need to get the orange, he’s supposed to have one all the time but I don’t know if he has it after today.” His voice nearly broke as Elros’ fingers scrabbled to open a button sealing a pocket. Thankfully, there was a mostly-squished orange fruit inside, and Elrond tossed it to Maglor.

It was strange how the two grown elves knew how to do all of this. Elrond knew they were brothers, and that they’d had other brothers including the two who died and were in the carriage. Those were twins, and he shuddered to think of Elros joining them in death. He had little time to think of that, however, as there were other things to focus on: the way Maedhros brushed Elros’ hair off his face, the way Maglor gently hummed a tune as he removed the fat seeds from the fruit and squeezed it into a cup of liquid from… somewhere.

It was strange how easy it was to trust Maglor to tip the liquid down Elros’ throat, even when he coughed and sputtered. “Tastes bad,” he croaked.

“Drink it anyway,” said Elrond and Maglor nearly together, looking at each other briefly as Elros took more sips. His breathing slowly evened, no one looking away until he had nearly fallen asleep tucked in Maedhros’ arm.

“How did that happen?” Maedhros asked quietly, repositioning the child he held.

“Mother said it’s because we’re half-elven,” Elrond said, willing to bring Maedhros’ attention to himself for the first real time. He had been terrified before, especially when he learned Maedhros led the charge against his home, but he was holding Elros nicely, and he was still alive. He was alive thanks to the older elves who had kept it together when Elrond had panicked.

“We’ve never known half-elves before,” said Maglor when the fire was lower and Elrond’s exhaustion was finally starting to overpower his adrenaline. Elros slept nearby, carefully watched by Maedhros. “It seems like we’ll all have some learning to do.”

“And you want to learn,” said Elrond, incredulous.

Maglor repositioned himself, turning to look the young boy in the eye. “We will never hurt you. I know it may be hard to believe, if not impossible, but my brother and I will take care of you, no matter what we need to learn.”

It took time to realize that Maglor’s words were true, but even just hearing someone he thought of as so scary in battle saying that was enough to calm him. And perhaps he would ask them more about how they knew to make the hot tea and what else was in that interesting bag of theirs, all the herbs looking the same in the moonlight. Maybe he could learn to help Elros, too.


	3. Chapter 3

“How can anyone stand to drink that?” Celebrían muttered, wrinkling her nose as Elrond passed over another cup of the tea.

Elrond paused. “Elros told me that an allergic reaction felt like a vice upon his throat. It would start deep in the ears, then progress inward. As if he was being choked from within. His tastes may have been particular, but I cannot imagine anyone would wish to feel that way.”

“Did he get red in the face as well?”

“Yes, and I warned him that if he ever drank too much to be careful, the ruddy face could be too easily mistaken for drunkenness. Not that he was known for it, but…” His words trailed off as he looked down at Dior, whose face was slightly less swollen but still resembled a tomato more than the famously fair son of Lúthien.

“Dior is hardly known for it either… I should have seen it sooner,” said Nimloth, picking up his hand that did not hold a teacup.

“We all have weaknesses when it comes to the ones we love,” Elrond replied, feeling a squeeze from Celebrían on his shoulder. “When Elros had that reaction in the woods, I was convinced that I would lose him, and I couldn’t help but panic. It was Maedhros and Maglor who kept their heads and got him what he needed.”

Invoking their names was hardly wise, even after telling them the story of Elros’ first reaction outside of Sirion, but Dior hardly glared, and Nimloth simply sighed. “I am sure you know we have many problems with them and their family, but we do owe them for our grandson’s life, it seems.”

Elrond nodded, the words somehow coming more easily. “I have found that nearly everyone here is far deeper than the stories about them might show. And there is still much for me to learn, even though I spent so long learning before my arrival.”

A small smile flitted across Nimloth’s face, and Elrond could almost see how it might widen if she told a joke. “Many people think it’s strange that Dior has such a reaction to such a common food,” she mused, looking down at him. “With so few peredhil, there was never anyone else who understood. To others, it might appear to be an extreme reaction to nothing at all, perhaps even brought on completely by some mental problem.”

“It did take us a long time to recover from our wounds,” Celebrían said. “And there were few people who could corroborate something like an allergy affecting someone so mighty.”

Guilt swept across Elrond’s mind as he wondered if Celebrían had ever experienced skepticism about her symptoms, if anyone ever doubted her. It made more sense why she was so determined for him to forge a bond with his grandparents. He looked down at Dior again, noting that his breath was coming more easily. His posture was less rigid as he relaxed under the blankets, assured that he would survive.

“Can I see?” he eventually asked, and oddly enough, when Dior was handed a small mirror to examine his face, he took one look at the red splotches and smiled.

“You will be back to your usual self soon,” said Nimloth. “And hopefully, no one will doubt your allergy again, especially with the word of our healer grandson to back it up.”

“I wish you could have met Elros,” Elrond blurted out. “He would have enjoyed knowing someone else with the same allergy. The men of his court knew, of course, but I believe he would have liked a kindred spirit. He was glad his children never showed any signs, but still, it must have been lonely.”

Dior pushed himself up on his elbows. “We met him once,” he said, “but his face was far from this.”

Elrond thought of his brother as he last saw him, an old, wizened man so close to death he could barely breathe for reasons completely unrelated to peanuts. His Estel must look like that now, Elrond realized, but for once that pain was pushed to the back of his mind.

“How?” Elrond asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I was not the only one who needed time to heal,” Celebrían said softly, and suddenly her words about spending time with his grandparents made him realize that they must have been there, too. Somehow, in that strange garden beyond the normal rules of life and death...

“I may not have kept my scars on my body, but I kept them in my heart,” said Nimloth, who he suddenly remembered had lost two children to death and a third to life without her. “We cared not for time, and by the time we were nearly ready to leave, he appeared. We did not have much time with him,” she continued. “And we do not know what happened to him after, when our paths inevitably parted. But we got to meet him, to see a small part of our child who lived.”

The truth felt all too real to Elrond. He still had no idea if his sons would choose to join him in the Undying Lands. In a cruel twist of fate, he realized he had twin boys still living, when Dior’s twins died young and afraid. He would lose his daughter, when his grandparents clung to his mother as their only living child. He was now that last link they had to the life they had, the family they once yearned for.

“You will have more time with us,” Elrond said. “Even with everything that happened, everything we may think about various choices in our lives, we are still family. Our blood binds enough.”

It was strange to think of blood being enough. With so many parents in his life, blood had mattered so little, but sitting here in the secluded room, away from their storied histories, Dior and Nimloth felt like family. He wondered what else he might learn about them, how he might fill in the basic shell of his knowledge about his grandparents with reality. Perhaps he would learn over more dinners, without peanuts anywhere nearby, where they could be more honest with each other instead of tiptoeing around the truth for fear of breaking the tentative peace. Perhaps, now that the peace had been broken, there was a chance to build something new.

Time passed slowly in time with Dior’s breaths that calmed down as the sun made its way across the sky. Elsewhere, the feast must have resumed, but even though Elrond had sought ways away from being alone with his grandparents before, he had no such desire now.

“I would not have thought to ask about something like this,” Dior eventually said in a clearer voice, when the moon’s light shone. “It seemed that so little passed down, save for the responsibilities of kingship.”

“I can see parts of him in you,” Elrond said nearly thoughtlessly. “You have the same look in your eyes. The same determination to choose your own path.” And somehow it helped to see this when he missed his brother so fiercely that sometimes it felt like his own throat was closing from the pain of it.

“You have that as well,” said Nimloth. “And you, Celebrían.” His wife smiled ever so slightly, absentmindedly rubbing a spot on her arm that used to hold a jagged scar.

“We surely have more in common,” Elrond said. “And we have all the time in the world to discover it.” The time for many other people and things had passed. Elrond would never know Eluréd and Elurín, his uncles who died young and alone and clinging to each other like he clung to Elros that night so many years ago. And his grandparents would never know Maedhros and Maglor as anything other than murderers. But there were still things that could be learned, small moments like these that gave so much more than any history book could.

This time, Dior’s smile was bright. “We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes several headcanons from the artist, including:  
> \- Half-elves can get food allergies, and both Dior and Elros have a peanut allergy  
> \- Dior being allowed by Namo to keep his damaged eye from his fatal fight against Celegorm  
> \- Dior and Nimloth meeting Elros briefly, as they needed into the first millennium of the Second Age to heal from the trauma of their deaths at the Second Kinslaying  
> \- Strong familial relationship between Nimloth and Celebrian
> 
> In addition to these headcanons, I included my headcanon where Elrond is a pseudo-grandson to Nerdanel and feels genuine affection for Maedhros and Maglor as father figures. Also, in case the herbal remedies are unclear, I used broccoli as a source of quercetin, and trifoliate/hardy orange and stinging nettle for anti-inflammatory properties since Epi-Pens don’t exist in Middle-Earth.


End file.
